To The Not So Bitter End
by leaf the invisible
Summary: John reflects, and is upset, but has a happy realisation. 2x03 spoilers.


Gone.

Each day he woke, and discovered it was still the truth. The flat, still to silent. Who would have thought his absence would be so noticeable? There were no new body parts in the fridge. No new experiment taking up the table or counter. No violin being played in the living room. John and forced himself to put the instrument away. Sherlock would have not wanted it damaged by dust and humidity. It's case sat ominously near the window on a small table, surrounded by anatomy and chemistry texts.

Putting the violin away had been almost as painful as the funeral had been. It was so final, like eating the last crisp, or finishing a book. The violin remained silent, Sherlock would never touch it again.

Some wounds did not heal with time.

John still had trouble believing it was real. Oh yes, he knew what he had seen. He'd seen the fall with his own eyes. He'd examined the body himself. He'd stumbled through the motions of burying a man that, had come to mean everything to him. Even now, he daily limped out to visit the grave. Unable to convince his body that the limp should not be. Mycroft had told him to stop going . Mrs Husdon had tsked softly when she saw him leaving the building. Greg had physically tried to get between him and the grave. He'd stared down the Detective Inspector, and then gone anyway.

Some days he brought a pint concealed in his jacket. Other days he brought flowers, awful chinese from the place down the street. Some days he brought nothing. John talked. He talked until his voice was hoarse, his brain numb. He repeated things, cursed things. One day he simply crumpled to his knees, head resting against the headstone as a realization washed over him. One he had so ardently avoided. He let himself cry on the tombstone, the stone chilling his cheek.

"I love you, how could you." His voice cracked at the words, he couldn't stop the tears which fell, rolling over his cheeks. He hadn't let himself cry, not often anyway. Now it came in floods. The confession tumbled from his lips like an avalanche. John wasn't sure how to continue. Either speaking or living. Life had lost all color. All excitement. He had left his job at the surgery. He had cut ties with Sarah. He was vaguely certain that Mycroft was the only reason he still had the flat or anything to eat. When he bothered. His clothing hung lose on his frame. The same jumpers, now worn jeans. All of it hid sharp angles of bones. John wanted to believe that Sherlock would come back. He knew that, everything Sherlock had said, it couldn't have been true. Sherlock had wanted to protect him, but, from what? John would never know. He sighed heavily and noticed almost absently, that it had started to rain.

John didn't move. His face already wet from tears, why did it matter if rain fell? He was near Sherlock. He could remember seeing the man in the rain, damp curls hanging in his face, cheeks flushed from the chase. Eyes bright with the thrill of it. Sherlock had been beautiful. Moments like that, more beautiful than any other time.

John was already soaked when an umbrella opened over his head. Blue eyes shifted slowly, they were reddened by crying. He was exhausted. Slowly he took in the man standing next to him. Dark eyes were studying the gravestone John was leaned against. They shifted to quietly take in Dr. John Watson for a long moment.

"Partner?" The tall fellow asked, a voice soft like new silk. John almost let out his usual protest. The one he'd made often when Sherlock had been alive, but then he just let himself nod slowly.

"Yes" He murmured, his voice low, he found his throat was sore.

"Come on." A hand was offered to him. A gentle hand with long fingers, a musician's hand. "Let's get you dry, and perhaps wrapped around a nice cuppa?"

John blinked, slowly he found himself accepting the stranger's hand. Between the pull the stranger gave, and his cane, which he now carried often again, he was able to get to his feet. "I'm Alan by the way," the younger man offered.

"John." He found himself responding. Alan gave him a smile and somehow coaxed him into moving away from Sherlock's graveside.

The flat that John found himself in was cosy, small. He was wrapped in a blanket and short his trousers, jacket and shirt. Alan pushed a steaming mug into his fingers and settled into the chair across from him.

"I've been where you are." Alan mused, John caught sight of a baby grand piano behind the younger man. "I lost my Henry about a year and a half back."

John pulled his attention back to the other man. He slowly lifted the cup and took a sip of hot and bitter dark tea.

"It get's easier, with time." Alan offered, watching John closely.

"Does it?" John found himself asking. He hadn't noticed the pain lessening, and his hands shook just a little bit as he asked.

"Surprisingly," Alan admitted. "I had music to help me." He gestured towards the piano. John sighed softly, taking another sip of tea before responding.

"He was the musician." He responded finally, voice soft. "Violin." Alan gave him a sympathetic smile.

"How long ago did he pass?" The younger man inquired. John wasn't at all surprised at the question. Though part of him still couldn't believe the answer.

"Three years, almost." Saying it out loud made him feel foolish. Three years was a long time. "Not a day goes by that I don't miss the git. That I don't' expect to turn around and find him there."

Alan whistled softly, John busied himself with drinking the mug of tea in his hands. He couldn't look at the other man.

"Really in love with the bloke weren't you." Alan inquired softly, as if he couldn't resist wanting to know an answer. Sherlock would have mocked him for stating the obvious.

"Still love him." John found himself correcting softly. "He, was my world." He could feel his heart clench tightly. Sherlock would lecture him, tell him that emotions where foolish. Tell him that he needed to focus on what was more important. But what could he focus on? He didn't cook. He didn't solve crimes like the other had. He didn't find the oblivion of drugs appealing. There was nothing left for him without Sherlock. The world was flat, almost colorless.

"You know, he wouldn't want you to be like this." Alan's voice reached him. "He'd want you to keep living."

"Would he?" John responded. Though he knew that Alan was right. Sherlock hadn't died so that he would become despondent. He'd died, likely to protect John. Because that was what Sherlock did. For all his, sociopathic behavior, Sherlock protected those important to him. He let himself smile though. "You didn't know Sherlock." He murmured.

"No, I suppose I didn't." Alan admitted. He watched John a bit more. John finished the tea and put the mug down quietly.

"I should go, are my things dry?" John found himself changing the subject. This young man had been kind to him. But now he didn't want to discuss Sherlock any more. It hurt almost as much as not discussing it. This had been, to much. He needed to get back to Baker Street. He needed to sit and think. John's clothing was presented to him and he quickly moved to redress. Alan quietly cleared away his mug, giving him a little peace as he dressed. Politely, as always, John thanked Alan as he shrugged into his jacket. He allowed himself to be seen out by the younger man. It was still drizzling lightly. If he hurried, he shouldn't get to wet.

The flat was quiet. John changed from his still damp things quickly and then slowly settled on the couch. His eyes flicked to the spot on the wall where Sherlock had once shot it in boredom. The smilie face was still there. Mrs Husdon had not yet bothered to get it fixed. John almost wondered if she had done that just for him. Quietly studying the spot he slowly pulled his mobile from his pocket. He thumbed through the contacts, to Lestrade he sent a "How are things?" text. Then he found Sherlock's number. He'd sent it several texts in the first few months. His Therapist had suggested it might help him process the death of his very dear friend. None had ever bounced back. Not a single text. The phone was on somewhere, and charged. John hesitated, then slowly selected the contact, and began to compose a message. His thumb hovered over the send. Surely after all this time it would bounce. Mycroft couldn't possibly be keeping a phone active when nobody would use it. A shudder of regret ran through John, and he pushed send.

"I love you, I miss you. I can't keep doing this without you. - JW"

He slowly put down the phone. His hand shook. He ran a hand over his own face, trying to focus himself. What was the point any more. He wasn't any less lost than he had been that first day. He took a slow shaky breath. Maybe Lestrade could find a place for him. Anderson was horrible at forensics. He always missed the more vital medical things. John could do that. It would give him focus, and remind him of Sherlock yes, but he couldn't bring himself to deal with the regular joe and their coughs and sniffs and children. Dead bodies he could do. Perhaps. Maybe it would be enough to distract him.

His phone jingled. John blinked at that. He hadn't really expected a response from the DI so quickly. He picked up the phone and then froze as his eyes took in the screen. The response had not been from Lestrade.

"Don't be an even bigger idiot than usual. I'll be home in two hours. Have the kettle on. -SH"

He read the text at least three times before taking a shaky breath. He read it again, then once more before he could bring himself to move. Hesitantly, he wrote a response.

"Sherlock?"

"Whom else would be using my mobile? -SH"

Fresh tears threatened to overtake John. He had thought he'd cried himself dry. Apparently not. John closed his eyes for a long moment and tried to compose himself.

"Headed to Tesco, need anything?"

"Cigarettes, and some of the ginger biscuits. - SH"

John let himself smile. After a minute, then moved to get up. Maybe he was hallucinating. If he was, he didn't want it to end. Shrugging into his still damp coat he hurried back out of the flat. Sherlock was coming home.

It hit him when he returned to the flat, just how silly this all was. Slowly he pulled his phone out to reread the messages. In a way he was trying to make sure this was real. Surely he didn't make up texts. They were there. He wanted to believe this was real. Nobody was playing a game with him. Sherlock had to be alive. Sherlock had to be coming home... Had to.

A plate of biscuits was put out, tea made and grown cold. The allotted time had passed, and yet John sat. He stared at the door, ears straining for the sound of familiar steps. He was hopeful. It seemed to be for nought. John fell asleep waiting in his chair. It was to much, he was to drained to bother. He was still alone.

John woke with a start. But just as quickly as he woke he found himself holding very still. It was uncomfortable, but unnecessary. He was not alone in the flat. At that precise moment, he could not determine if it was friend or foe.

The intruder was sitting in Sherlock's chair. A chair John had not touched, had not moved, since the death of his friend. John could barely make out the other figure. A glimpse of pale skin. He stared at the other person silently for several moments. There was no way the person could not tell they were being watched.

"It appears you need a keeper Doctor." Sherlock's voice broke the stillness. It sounded wonderful. Raw silk over water. Something he had never imagined he would hear again. It made John's heart speed up, a chill run down his spine. "You are thin, and you are not sleeping well."

Not the typical diagnosis from the other man, but wonderful to hear just the same. Somehow John found his voice. "Sherlock..." He murmured. The man shifted at the name. John was torn. If it was a dream, Sherlock would disperse easily once he sat himself up properly. If it wasn't... John let his eyes close slowly, steeling himself for a moment. "Please be real." He didnt' dare open them, in case the illusion was broken.

Cool fingers stroked over his cheek. John let himself lean into the touch. Savoring it. The fingers shifted against his skin, then a palm was cupping his cheek. John slowly let his eyes open, fully afraid that this would break when he did. Sherlock was leaning over him. He had stood and was before John. His eyes were quiet in the dark, lips slightly parted, hair tumbling around his face as wildly as any other day.

"I am Real." His low voice answered. John reached up, fingers sliding across pale skin to sink into dark hair. He pulled Sherlock down, quickly, almost desperately kissing the younger man. For a terrifying moment, there was no response. John was afraid he'd done something horrible. Then a tentative pressure in return, soft lifts parting enough to allow a curious brush of tongues. It was more than obvious that Sherlock knew little beyond the mechanics of kissing. He was returning the gesture though, that was more than enough for now, for John. Slowly he loosened the hold he had on Sherlock's hair. The younger man straightened up some, holding his gaze however.

"You aren't, angry." It was more a statement than a question. But it was said slowly enough John could sense that it was a question.

"Of course I'm angry." John sighed, his fingers slowly coasted along Sherlock's jaw. "But I'm also, idioticly happy you git."

"Why?" Sherlock asked. He didn't move from the touch though, John's fingers lingered there against his jaw.

"Because I love you." John admitted softly. Sherlock's eyes closed for a long moment. Briefly, John was worried that he shouldn't have said that. Then Sherlock looked at him, all cool and centered eyes.

"He would have killed you." The detective admitted. John sighed softly then let his hand drop, he tilted his his head. Part of him wanted Sherlock to just sit down in his lap. "I had to, I had to take him down, it was the only way to, protect you and do that."

John blinked and then shifted, he took a slow breath. "I, I figured." He admitted. Sherlock surprised him by settling on the table between their chairs. One knee pressed against John's quietly, insistently. "You're really back, right?"

"I have taken down enough of his network to safely return. Mycroft had my phone." Sherlock was quiet for a moment or two. "You texted surprisingly often."

"...Therapist." John started, then he sighed. "I hoped that you would respond."

"I have now. I will not leave again." Sherlock took him in quietly, almost John felt, like a man who saw water after thirsting for a very long time.

"Don't leave again." John pleaded softly. He studied his dear dear Sherlock. There was no going back now. Sherlock knew how he felt.

"I have no intentions of doing such a thing." Sherlock murmured. "Now I believe you need to rest."

John started to respond, but decided it was pointless. Even more so, when he was not alone, in Sherlock's bed. They might not go back to normal, but things were finally feeling right.


End file.
